... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... Spring ...

quarrel

We sat in that spot, just off the park road,
and stared at the water as it slid by,
indifferent to its own chaos. The timid tail
of Winter’s chill still hung on to the outer
edges of Appalachian air. Miniature clouds
puffed from your mouth and quickly
vanished with each breath.

“This Spring is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, they are all the same.

“They are all green. Always green. And heavy
with white and yellow flower heads bobbing in
wayward West winds. The air is drunk and dense
with the crumbs of carrion love adrift on a breeze,
seasoned in symmetry.

“For every yellow petal you will find
a pink, and for every green stalk, a frothy,
white tumble cloud, spilling up and
over the mountain.”

“This one is different.”

“Oh no it isn’t, just more of the same.”

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... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... death ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... Spring ..., ... the South ...

broken bird

there are only
quiet, quircky
movements of faulty-
back contortions
as brown and
black feathers flail
for a flight
that will never
come. this
broken bird is
going to die
right here,
in the burnt
summer grasses.

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... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... home ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... Spring ..., ... the South ..., ... time ...

A Late Winter Forest Burn

when Winter dry heaves
under black, crystal skies,
with a choke and stutter
and solemnly dies

the birds of the air,
all return to their nests
to brood and to court
with new songs in their breasts

the fox, the hare, and fawn
on bitter mornings cry
and whisper in cloudy breaths,
stretched noses to the sky

and i recline here
in my warm and cozy cave
while life erupts outside,
life inside misbehaves.

when the woods all dance
with a boisterous sound,
we light her cindered petticoat
and burn the jejune ground.

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... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... girl ..., ... L.F. ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... the South ...

a poet with no good words

I sat this morning
in gray shadows.
candle lit, just right
brooding acoustic music
writing pad and pen

I sat this morning
to write you something,
some tangible whispering
of love, or adoration,
or flattery..

I pondered ridiculous
adjectives and a
marathon of run on sentences,
I sat this morning
to write you something,

but nothing came.

so I stilled myself,
in the quiet green beauty of
this foggy, Spring dawn
and thought of and
cared for nothing
save you.

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... beauty ..., ... bee ..., ... country ..., ... girl ..., ... kiss ..., ... L.F. ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... relationships ..., ... Spring ..., ... summer ..., ... the South ..., ... written under the influence ...

she blooms

there is nothing humdrum
about her.

she lilts on
the edge of Summer, even when
Spring has only sprung. the trees
are scarcely draped in half
greens and timid hues of blue
bounce round and round
in the eternal depths of a
forest, with bark as black as night.

she holds me in the palm of
her tiny hands. should i try,
every bone and heart of hers
i could break with ease. bent reeds
ready to be snapped. smoldering wicks,
waiting to be snuffed. the Father
would never, but Daddy would.

she invades all the space
and her dandelion charms,
the promise of honey, the wisping
of a blonde breeze, in pirouette circles
i see the smile and sunlight erupts
from behind her teeth and the entire
green of the planet comes from
her eyes, where Summer – and its
frivolity, never sleeps. never stops
spinning.

she blooms right before my eyes
i am her bee

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